


The Exit He Deserves

by tielan



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Episode: s02e11 The Hive, F/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, episode epilogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-13
Updated: 2006-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-10 07:18:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/97104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tielan/pseuds/tielan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is egret, remaining noble in the poorest of swamps. And she is egress, the exit he deserves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Exit He Deserves

The water is a cool balm over hot skin, and he cuts through the water with swift strokes.

Swimming in the sea around Atlantis reminds him of the sweltering spring days of his family’s ranch in Sateda. Salt tingles on his lips, stinging in the healing remnants of his wounds, nothing like the cool river water that sluiced through the dam at home. But close enough.

Close enough.

Beckett claims the relapse won’t last more than a day.

One day is enough.

He ploughs through the water, enjoying the silken feel of the engulfing liquid on his skin, swimming from one end of the enclosure to the other to work off his energy.

Usually, he’d spar against Teyla or the marines; but the marines can’t beat him even when he isn’t on the enzyme, and he’s not minded to fight Teyla today. The enzyme boosts his confidence as well as his skills; but even Ronon won’t challenge a woman whose strength on the enzyme is formidable, and whose temper right now is terrifying.

Ronon didn’t survive seven years as a runner, only to be killed by a short-tempered, menstruating team-mate.

Plunging deep into the ocean, Ronon swims down as far as he could go, until the sun and sky are only a memory. Then his legs kick out against the resistance of the water and he bursts up through the surface, breathing deeply of the air and the light, bellowing out a cry of exultant life.

It’s not the same fierce joy he feels when running, when fighting - not the same brilliant immediacy of presence, but it’s enough.

He tosses back his dreadlocks, shoulders heaving with the lack of air, and a shadow moves across the ocean.

“Corporal Norhouse said he saw you headed this way,” Dr. Weir says, her boots planted firmly on the pier. “Do you mind the company?”

_Yes._ But Ronon doesn’t say it.

He shrugs, indicating he doesn’t care, and keeps moving. Movement eases back his restlessness, dims the urge to fight everything in sight. Not that there’s anyone to fight here.

Dr. Weir isn’t an opponent and never could be.

In the corner of his eye, she sit down at the edge of the pier, taking off her jacket and resting her boots on the top rung of the ladder that leads down into the sea. With her arms resting on her knees and her eyes resting on him as he swims back and forth, she reminds him of cousin Estacia, who always watched the play of the swimmers from the safety of the shore.

Ronon swims up to her, cutting through the water like a sharp knife through butter. “Don’t you have other things to do?”

A faint smile touches her mouth. “Maybe. Even I need a break sometimes.”

He nods as he trod water. “Can you swim?”

“Not that well.” Her hands rest on her knees. “Did you live near the ocean? On Sateda?”

“A river on a ranch,” he answers. Then, because the water is only cooling his body, not his spirits, he asks, “Really a break?”

Her expression is wry, and a little piqued. His disbelief grates on her nerves. “It’s so difficult to believe I don’t live and breathe Atlantis?”

Ronon watches her. “You’re still wearing the earpiece.”

“They need to be able to contact me--”

He doesn’t have to say anything, a look is enough.

She gets that exasperated expression that he sometimes sees on Teyla when he’s being what Sheppard calls ‘bratty’. Then her fingers reach up and unhook the earpiece from her cheek, tossing it into the pile of her jacket. “Satisfied?”

“Yes.” With his grin, she realises the mistake she’s made, but it’s too late to go back.

The bottom rung of the ladder provides leverage for him to step up out of the water, grabbing her wrists in a firm grip and hauling her into the water, clothes and all.

Her yelp is a restrained version of the squeal Estacia used to make, but his name on her lips sounds nothing like his cousin’s protests.

Bodies crash into the water, and he pulls her under, hooking an arm around her waist so she can’t escape so easily. She fights, of course, he wouldn’t expect otherwise. But on a regular day, she’s no match for him, and this isn’t a regular day. Ronon’s faster, stronger, and more alert than ever.

Elizabeth Weir is no match for him, in or out of the water.

When they surface, she splutters at first. “What...what was that for?”

Ronon just grins. “Having a break.”

Indignity turns to momentary outrage, and then something wicked glimmers in green eyes. She flicks water into his face, a swift short slap of the water, then tries to swim away.

He catches her easily in one swift stroke. Her clothing hampers her while he has nothing but his skin and the enzyme running potent through his body. Elizabeth yelps once, startled but not alarmed as he pulls her beneath the water with him, then turns aside as she tries to kick out at him.

She comes up spitting salty water, her hair a richer brown for the drenching. “Unfair advantage!”

Laughter is an easy response to her protest. “Is it that obvious?”

Untrained as a fighter, she’s stubborn enough to think she can outpace him, and lunges for the ladder at the pier. Ronon catches her without any effort, and she digs her fingers into his ribs causing him to spasm before he swims away.

Her laughter is delighted, with an oddly-youthful note in it. Ronon’s willing to bet that few people in Atlantis have seen this side of Elizabeth before, this playful lilt.

Another attempt for the ladder, but Ronon is still faster in the water and hauls her back.

More laughter and a brief struggle. They’re both aware it’s a game and neither wants to break the play.

Beneath his hands, the wet material of her shirt doesn’t disguise the warmth of the skin beneath. Letting her go would spoil the fun, and she’s not struggling hard to be freed, although he can feel the brush of her pant legs against his skin as they tread water in close proximity, watching for the next move.

Elizabeth’s lunge _towards_ him is unexpected. Ronon has time for little more than a deep breath before she becomes deadweight in his arms. Her amusement rings in his ear, a quick, delighted laugh whose echoes ripple down his spine. Then the salt water swallows them up.

Her hands close around the back of his neck, and her knees hook over his hips, dragging them both under.

Full marks for deviousness.

But two can play at that game.

He lets them sink, his hands coming to rest on her hips, his legs unmoving, holding his breath. They will drift to the bottom of the ocean, lost in the current, locked in an embrace that is nothing of the sort - until one or the other gives way.

She laughs again, a burst of bubbles from her lips, sounding strange beneath the water. The bubbles tease the tendrils of hair by his temples and tickle his skin, bringing a smile to his lips even as his lungs begin to long for air.

It’s a waiting game, and they’re playing for nothing more than the pleasure of laughing in the other’s face when they surface.

So Ronon waits. So does she. This close, he can see the amusement in her eyes, the confidence of a woman who has the aces up her sleeves. It makes him suspicious.

But the lack of air is making his lungs burn.

He jerks slightly as her hand drifts over his bare shoulder, shifting position. That same movement tugs free the edge of her t-shirt, and Ronon’s fingers brush bare skin.

Yearning slams into him, unexpectedly harsh. Ronon wants to press his hand into the small of her back, to urge her against his body. He wants to turn his head so their lips meet, to taste salt and sweetness intermingled. He wants to peel off her sodden clothing, piece by piece, and run his hands over every inch of her skin.

But most of all he wants to breathe.

In his veins, his heartbeat is thunderous, and his lungs scream for air, their last reserves waning. Without conscious thought, his legs begin kicking, propelling them both up into the light and into sanity.

The towers of the city gleam in the midafternoon, flashing steel and silver, gleaming blue and sunlit gold, but her eyes are sparkling green as a forest canopy when they emerge into air, gasping. And her smile is brilliant, exquisite.

“Clever,” is all Ronon says as he treads water for them both. Air or not, she’s still a dead weight in his arms, refusing to let go or help them stay afloat. He’d be annoyed if the feel of her pressing didn’t bemuse him against his skin.

Her smile is almost demure, but for the tilt of her head. “Thank you.”

As she reaches for the pier, Ronon reaches for her.

This time, his hand slips under the edge of her shirt and traces across the warm-cool flesh of her back. Her turn is swift, and the one clear glance she gives him both innocent and knowing.

Escape is neither needed nor wanted.

Initiative is.

She doesn’t lean towards him, but there’s no resistance as his lips touch hers. Elizabeth tastes of salt and sweetness, hunger and uncertainty, wanting and withholding; Ronon wants to seize, take, possess her - and the fire in his blood says he can and should.

The hands that rest on his shoulder and curl against his nape say she would let him.

All the water in the ocean cannot cool this heat.

A faint noise interrupts them - an insistent voice coming from the discarded earpiece two feet away. Ronon doesn’t quite let her go, but she reaches the earpiece with nothing more than an embarrassed and warning glance at him as she fits it to her ear.

“This is Dr. Weir.”

The faint tinny voice is one of the gate technicians announcing that one of the offworld teams has just returned ahead of schedule.

Beneath his hand, the muscles of her back tense. “Are they injured?”

“No, ma’am, but they’ve got important news.”

“I’ll be there in...fifteen minutes,” she says and tosses the earpiece back to the jacket.

Ronon slides his hand across her back, and she turns at his touch. “I have to go.” She’s uncomfortable - that’s obvious enough - but she hesitates. It’s enough for him to kiss her again, with a little less finesse and a little more hunger, sure of what he wants - of what she wants.

She wants this - his hands on her skin, his mouth over hers, his muscles under her hands, his hips against hers - Ronon would know if she didn’t. Still, she pulls away. “I said I’d be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Be late.” He grins, already knowing she won’t, but his hands aren’t willing to let her go.

“No.”

It’s gentle but final and she pulls away, warm flesh giving way to the swirl of chill ocean. Anger rises, propels him off into the water so he doesn’t give in to the urge to haul her back and take her anyway.

“Ronon.”

He pauses at one end of the enclosure, tense and quivering. “Elizabeth?”

Her expression changes as he says her name, and she hesitates. The afternoon light falls across her left cheek, sculpting her of porcelain and steel. “Never mind,” she says, and turns away.

Ronon watches her until she looks back at the end of the pier, until she turns her face to the city and walks away, leaving him hot in the cold, salt water.

He goes back to swimming, hauling himself through the liquid salt by main force, trying to use up the energy he can feel pushing him, pulling him, tugging him, tearing him. Trying to forget the taste and feel and warmth and cool of her.

It’s not enough.

 

_... because he stands still as the moon, and as white; because the green-striped cichlids know certain fear_   
_upon the rush of that golden spear;_   
_because his darker cousin still waits patiently at the frayed_   
_end of a reedy pond;_   
_and because he will sail the cracked back of crocodile;_   
_and because there is no love lost in his piercing stare; and because he is egret, remaining noble in the poorest of swamps;_   
_and because she is egress, the exit he deserves._

_~ Simmons B. Buntin, ‘Riverfall’ ~_


End file.
